The Game
Authors: Amanda Prowse
It is easy to tell when applause is real and when it’s not. Polite applause is awkward, embarrassing; no one really wants to continue, but equally, no one wants to be the first to stop. Those that are being applauded know the difference too; they can see it and feel it. You can’t fool anyone and you can’t fake it. Real applause lifts you up, like wings do, and sends you soaring. It is infectious, loud and energising. This was just like that.
Three hundred pairs of hands smacking their palms together without reservation or restraint, it sounded like thunder, like horses’ hooves cantering along cold, hard soil, a thousand football trench rattles all blended together for five minutes or so. Someone then decided that it wasn’t enough; they started to whoop and holler. Someone else considered this to be a great idea and they too started to shout out, giving a word to the shout, ‘More! More!’ This became the chorus, a crescendo building and building.
For Gemma Peters, standing centre stage in her green velvet gown, fake pearls and stiff lace collar, it was a strange experience. It looked like they were clapping in slow motion; she could see the slow raise of an arm before it landed in a slap of congratulations across her dad’s back, and she could see her mum bringing a tissue up to her eye to blot away a stray tear while carefully balancing her oversized handbag in the crook of her chubby arm. One of the English teachers, a tall bloke in a knitted tie, was trying to catch her eye. She looked at him and he winked, raising his clenched fist. He mouthed the words with one hand now placed over his heart, ‘Well done!’
Her friends, Alice and Victoria, jumped up and down with their arms linked, reminding her of denim pogo sticks. She smiled at them. There were very few people in the crowd whose opinion mattered to her, but these were two of them. Her eyes sought Luke: he stood out, the shape of him, his particular shade of hair and stance were achingly familiar.
Look at me, see what I did?
He looked away.
Glancing at the three hundred faces smiling, nodding and commenting from the sides of their mouths to their loved ones, she felt elated. It was a wonderful feeling and one that she knew would not last. Gemma predicted that once her costume had been hung back on the rail in its plastic wrapper and the make-up removed, these same people would walk past her in the street or sit next to her on the bus and not give her a second glance. She would be back to ordinary. This was her one moment to be amazing.
She breathed deeply, taking in the odour of sweat and the unmistakeable tang of the school hall. As the heavy, rust-coloured, patched curtains hit the wooden floor a cloud of dust swirled around her feet, the particles of
Carousel
,
Charley’s Aunt
,
Hamlet
, a thousand other productions and a little bit of everyone in them. Her drama teacher, Miss Greg, stood at the bottom of the stairs. A nervous, mouse-like woman who hid behind oversized glasses, she shocked them regularly by standing up and shouting loudly in the character of whoever they were discussing. It was easier for her when she was being someone else; Gemma understood this.
Miss Greg threw her arms around Gemma, crushing her cheekbone into the gold-coloured chain from which a second pair of glasses hung against her pink jersey. With her guard down and fuelled by elation, she hugged the girl and grazed the top of her head with a kiss.
‘Oh my goodness, you were absolutely magnificent! Really incredible, Gemma! Well done you!’
Gemma could see the glimmer of tears behind her glasses. She hadn’t realised that it had meant so much to her.
‘Did you hear the applause? Did you hear it? They were going crazy! Isn’t it wonderful?’
Gemma nodded but didn’t speak, feeling deflated, disappointed.
She made her way backstage, accepting the hand squeezes and impromptu hugs that were showered upon her. As she navigated the narrow corridor, walking between the usually empty, locker-lined walls, people she had never seen before, parents of other kids probably, darted out, content to let her pass only once they had given her a compliment or touched her. It was a strange experience.
Her mum and dad, Jackie and Neil, were facing the door in the changing room, waiting for her, as she knew they would be. A little welcome party of two. It was funny to see them standing in front of the row of pegs that was usually cluttered with PE kit, uniform and girls squabbling or preening themselves before going back to lessons. They stood close together; her dad wasn’t tall and her mum’s head reached up to his shoulder. They were always close together like that, either on the sofa or in the kitchen. He would wash while she dried or sometimes they swapped, just to get a bit of variation and always with the burble of local radio as their background noise.
Her mum rushed forward, pulling her daughter into her. She wanted to be the first.
‘I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, baby! You are so clever, Gem, I can’t believe what you just did! How did you remember it all? You were absolutely brilliant! People were nudging me and saying, “Is that your Gemma? What a clever girl!” And you are. You really are.’
She smiled at her mum, knowing she wasn’t clever. Anyone could learn lines, take instruction on where to stand and how to speak, but to her mum it would have seemed amazing.
This she knew because her paintings from nursery were still Sellotaped to the kitchen cupboard doors, and her ‘A’-grade book review on
The Diary of Anne Frank
was only ever a fingertip’s reach away for when anyone visited. The fact was, everyone in the class had been given an ‘A’, in recognition of how they had dealt with such a sensitive subject, but that wouldn’t have registered with Jackie. She had always been like that; everything Gemma did was greeted with ‘Incredible!’ or described as ‘Brilliant! Unbelievable!’ Gemma knew the last bit was the truth: ‘unbelievable’. She had looked up the word in the dictionary and knew the definition by heart: ‘too unrealistic or improbable to be believed’.
She worked hard to achieve fairly average results, but the fact that her parents always saw her with her nose in a book meant that she was gifted. Gemma had tried to explain this to them, but it was pointless, as though they couldn’t hear, didn’t want to hear.
Her statements always elicited stock responses:
‘I’m not that bright.’
‘Course you are, you clever girl!
’
‘I’m not in the top set; I’m only in the middle stream.’
‘Only because those bloody teachers haven’t got a clue, you’re cleverer than all of them!’
Her particular favourite:
‘I don’t think I will go to university.’
‘Course you will! Don’t talk rubbish, you are going to Oxford, I can see it now! I’m already saving up for your bike, a red one with a little wicker basket on the front.
’
So there was very little point. What her parents did not appreciate was that the empty, shallow, yet constant praising of her mediocrity meant her confidence was shattered and her self-esteem through the floor. They had over the years unwittingly recalibrated her to feel that all praise was unmerited so she was now unable to distinguish between real achievement and hollow compliments, and to try and improve felt fruitless. Gemma often woke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Her nightmare was always the same: the moment her parents pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and saw the crappy A-Level grades that she was certain she would receive. What would happen then, when the bubble burst? If she pictured that moment she felt a swell of panic rise in her chest that made her want to scream.
Gemma’s dad elbowed his wife out of the way. ‘Let me get at her, Jacks. Come here, darling.’
He too crushed her against his chest and kissed the top of her head.
‘Blimey, girl, who knew you could do that? Gem, you were absolutely bloody brilliant. I mean, you know I can’t be doing with plays and all that, but I tell you what, I could sit through that again. You was marvellous!’
She closed her eyes and fell into her dad just for a second, inhaling the scent of his coat. It smelled like his aftershave and something else, a bit like the smoke of bonfires, and petrol, as if fuel vapours had permeated the fabric and now clung to the little fibres that tickled her nose. There was also the faint smell of dirt, not dirty, not body odour, but actual dirt, like soil. Gemma thought then that if she smelled her dad without knowing him, she would know that he wasn’t a professional; no doctor or lawyer would smell that way. It was a working man’s smell.
He released her too soon and studied her face.
‘You look exhausted, sweetheart. Let’s get you home and tucked up.’
Her dad made everything connected with home sound cosy and safe, he always did.
Her mum interjected. ‘I’ve got some nice muffins that I can toast for you, a little bit of strawberry jam and a cup of tea and you’ll be all set.’
Jackie was constantly concerned with food and its intake. If she was less preoccupied with it, Gemma thought, she wouldn’t be so fat. But she never said this; she would never hurt her mum’s feelings, not for the world.
‘Stacey’s in the car. I’ve popped the engine on so it’s nice and warm for you, how long will you be, love? I’m parked right out the front. The VIP spot for the leading lady!’ Her dad zipped up his padded car coat over his ample stomach and reached into the pocket for his car keys.
‘Do you want Mummy to wait with you while you take your make-up off?’
‘Course she doesn’t, Jacks, she wants to see her mates for a bit, don’t you, love? Or probably has to see the teachers or something.’
‘Oh right, yes, good point, Neil.’
Gemma nodded. They did this a lot, had a complete conversation about her, debating what was right, what was wrong, where she could go, what she should do, say, think. And then a conclusion would be reached without her having said a single word or added a single opinion, as though she wasn’t there at all but was in fact invisible, or mute. A mute opinion-less nothing.